


shooting stars

by robokittens



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2020 NHL All-Star Game Skills Competition, Age Difference, Awkward Flirting, M/M, Patrick Kane: Your Favorite Player's Favorite Player, Referenced Background Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: They've met before, like, a bunch of times; they were literally just hanging out on a platform in front of a bunch of cameras. It’s not like Mitch isstarstruckor whatever. But maybe a little, maybe enough that when Patrick says "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink. Can you even drink in St Louis?" — when Patrick Kaneteaseshim, maybe he blushes. A little.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Mitch Marner
Comments: 21
Kudos: 111





	shooting stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nuuclears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuuclears/gifts).



> look they're both so cute ok shut up. i'm judging me enough for both of us, don't worry.
> 
> thanks to chloe, for fixing stuff, and to megan, spiritually, and absolutely no fucking thanks to kt at all, i truly cannot _believe_.

Obviously Mitch doesn't think the All-Star Skills Competition is like — rigged, or whatever. Because a) that would be stupid, and b) that would be, like, so stupid; it's the All-Star Game. Who cares. Literally no one, but also, it's — it's his first one, right? It would have been cool, to win _something_. And he will, hopefully, the actual game’s tomorrow, but — this is Patrick Kane's, like, _thousandth_ All-Star Game. It's just the principle of the thing.

So it's Patrick Kane, of course, who catches him backstage before he manages to snap himself out of his stupid little sulk, who laughs at him but in a nice way and says, "Hey, you did great. You almost got me."

And it's like — you know. Whatever. They've met before, like, a bunch of times; they were literally just hanging out on a platform in front of a bunch of cameras. It’s not like Mitch is _starstruck_ or whatever. But maybe a little, maybe enough that when Patrick says "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink. Can you even drink in St Louis?" — when Patrick Kane _teases_ him, maybe he blushes. A little.

" _Yes_ ," he says, a little too insistent, like he's freshly nineteen and not — however old you need to be to have a beer in this backwater country.

Patrick laughs at him again. Mitch shouldn't like it as much as he does, probably. Should maybe do a little more than just trail after him like a duckling when Patrick says "Well, c'mon then. Let's hit the bar."

The hotel they put them up at is basically across the street; there's a shuttle but it seems silly not to just walk, especially since they don't have gear or anything, jerseys hanging in their temporary lockers, still in their sneakers. And they make it, somehow, only have to sign a couple autographs on the way. He follows close but he still loses Patrick for a minute, in the halls, in the hotel bar, which has been pretty crowded all day and is even more crowded now that the skills comp is over and everyone's getting started on the hangovers that Mitch has been assured are standard for tomorrow's game.

Patrick's leaning on the bar when Mitch catches up to him, chatting with the bartender. He's already got a glass in front of him, something red and slightly fizzy; Mitch thinks there's a cherry in it, maybe. He loves maraschino cherries, sticky and sweet like candy, especially if they've been soaking in booze for a while. He wonders if Patrick likes them too, if he'll let Mitch have his if he doesn't. 

"What are you drinking?" Patrick asks. His head is tipped back a little, eyes clear and unshaded by the brim of his hat.

"Uh —" Mitch can feel himself going slightly red. He feels caught, and he's not sure why, or what he's done. "Whatever you're having?"

Patrick raises an eyebrow. "You want a Shirley Temple?"

"I — oh." He knew, vaguely, that Patrick wasn't drinking much these days, but — he's not sure what the etiquette here is. There aren't any sober guys on his team, really, not even the boring old ones. But Patrick just rolls his eyes a little, grins at him, and leans back in toward the bartender. It seems almost like they know each other, but Patrick is just — personable. Mitch's eyes are still on his easy smile, the casual set of his shoulders, when Patrick hands him a glass. 

Mitch's drink is red, too, but when he takes a sip he can taste the vodka. Definitely not a Shirley Temple. "Thanks," he says, and tilts his glass just slightly toward Patrick, who tips his own in a silent toast.

It's not like drinking with the boys, really; Patrick's pretty quiet, mostly just people-watching, occasionally leaning in to share a story or a stat about someone across the room in a low murmur that makes Mitch's blood buzz at least as much as the alcohol does. He's drinking it pretty slowly, too, not trying to get wasted or anything; he might do that later, when he meets back up with Matts and Freddie, but — 

But right now he's leaning up against the bar, Patrick Kane so close to him he can feel the heat of his arm through their matching ugly All-Star hoodies, can see him looking up at him through his sooty lashes, smiling at Mitch with that mouth that Mitch should — stop staring at, probably. He can't help it, though. He's not even done with his drink and he's feeling — easy. Loose. Like, carefree, relaxed, not like — not like anything else.

Patrick yawns. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, but it doesn't hide the way his nose scrunches up. "Might be time to get out of here," he says.

It doesn't mean anything — like, he doesn't mean anything by it. Obviously. There's nothing suggestive in his tone, or the way his shoulder bumps companionably against Mitch's, or — but Mitch hasn't gotten where he's gotten without taking some risks. And he can pass it off as a joke, obviously — because he's joking! he is, when he says, "Your place or mine?"

Patrick laughs, which, obviously. And Mitch is gonna just — give it up right there, like, he'll shoot his shot but he's not gonna _push it_. No means no, and one of your childhood idols laughing in your face means no, too. But he can't stop himself from watching Patrick laugh — laugh at him, but. The way his eyes crinkle, and the curve of his lips, the white of his teeth and how Mitch can almost swear he sees a flash of tongue in the little gap there.

He shouldn't be staring. And he should look away. But he — doesn't, quite. Not before Patrick looks up again. And he knows it's too late now, to look away, too late to play it cool, but he can try, grin and laugh a little himself. He shrugs, puts on his best innocent face, like, _aw shucks who me?_

From the way Patrick stops laughing, the way the set of his jaw shifts, it's maybe not quite working. Or — or. Maybe.

"Your boys gonna miss you if you don't head back right away?" Patrick says, and his voice is pitched just low enough that for a moment Mitch can't fathom who his _boys_ could possibly be. Where else could he possibly have to go?

Patrick's looking at him expectantly for what probably isn't a solid minute but sure feels like it by the time Mitch manages to clear his throat. "Uh — no," he says. "No, they're not — expecting me. I mean, eventually, but like — I don't —"

"Well," Patrick says. He takes a final sip of his soda, and Mitch tries not to watch the way he worries the straw with his teeth. Barely even notices the cherry half-crushed in the ice in the bottom of the glass. He puts it down on the bar, and Mitch can't take his eyes off Patrick's hand. "Let's get out of here, then."

—

Patrick doesn't touch him the elevator, stands close but not _too_ close. Guides him down the hallway with a hand light on the small of his back. Mitch feels like he's practically vibrating, wonders if Patrick can feel it.

He has to get his keycard from his wallet, drops his hand from Mitch's back. Mitch doesn't, he's almost certain he doesn't, make a disappointed sound when Patrick stops touching him, just rocks back on his heels and waits. 

The hotel room is — neat. Which isn't surprising or anything; it's not like they're gonna be here long, but it's also not like Mitch has not personally exploded an entire two day's worth of clothing over a hotel room within five minutes of walking into it before. But Patrick's stuff is all — where it should be, suitcase is sitting at the foot of the bed, not latched or anything but it's easy enough to tell that everything's neat in there. The bed is made, like housekeeping's already been through, but they left the half-drunk bottle of water on the nightstand.

"So, Netflix and chill?" Mitch says, physically unable to stop himself, equally unable to stop himself from grinning in response when Patrick doesn't quite hold back a laugh, rolls his eyes a little. God. His smile is so — it's so nice. It's even nicer when it's aimed at Mitch.

"Are you trying to make me feel old?" Patrick says, and Mitch laughs, too.

"I don't know," he says. "Does that work for you?"

He feels brave, enough to reach out and — not grab Patrick's wrist. But brave enough to touch it, to put his fingers on Patrick's — on _Patrick Kane's wrist_. It feels. Feels daring, somehow.

"Does you being a _kid_ work for me?" Patrick says, and he sounds — unimpressed, but fond at the same time. It's not a tone Mitch is unused to hearing from people. It sounds better, in Patrick Kane's voice.

Mitch shrugs, a little jittery. Patrick hasn't moved his hand, is still letting Mitch touch him. "I don't know," he says. It's not brave he's feeling so much as some kind of reckless. "Does anything about me work for you?"

Patrick laughs again. It's more on the fond side, this time. He reaches up — his other hand — and brushes the backs of his knuckles against Mitch's cheek. "You gotta work on your shot accuracy," he says, and Mitch is entirely too busy staring into Patrick Kane's eyes to realize he's being chirped.

"Yeah," he says, inanely. Would probably have said the same thing to whatever Patrick said. Because Patrick Kane is — is touching him? Touching his face, somehow, still just the back of his hand but Mitch is all too willing to follow at the lightest pressure, to lean in just those couple of inches and —

And Patrick takes a step back. He drops his hand, pulls his other hand away from where Mitch's fingers were still grasping at it. Leaves him grasping at empty air, instead.

"You just had that one drink, right?" he says. He doesn't turn away from Mitch, not entirely, but — there's distance there, distance that wasn't there before, and Mitch has to stop himself from moving back in. Has to force himself to follow Patrick's lead, here, like — like in some crazy extended metaphorical way, some way that the beats would latch onto, like he's been doing for a while now.

"Just the one." Mitch says it like a promise, like he's swearing fealty; he can't help how desperate he sounds.

"And you know I'm —" Patrick cuts himself off, takes a breath, turns back and looks Mitch in the eye for real. "We're open about these sorts of things, but I'm ... I'm seeing someone. Seriously." There's something about the way he says it that makes Mitch think he doesn't mean the girlfriend Mitch has seen on tv, sometimes.

"Yeah," Mitch says. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. "Yeah that's — that's fine. if it's fine with your … partner." It takes him just a beat too long, but Patrick smiles at him when he says it.

"What about you?" Patrick says, and for a moment Mitch doesn't know how to answer. He takes a moment, thinks about it, and — he's still not sure. It's weird that Patrick probably knows how many secondary assists Mitch has had every year he's been in the league, but doesn't know if he's dating anyone, except that — except that Mitch isn't sure, either. Not right now, not necessarily.

"No one would be upset," he says finally. He sounds a little too quiet for his own liking, makes himself smile wide. "I mean, who wouldn't give me a pass for — you know. I mean. You're — _Patrick Kane_." He knows he sounds like a kid when he says it, but. He can't help it.

Fortunately, Patrick laughs at that. "Alright then, Mitchell Marner. If that's how it's gonna be."

Mitch shrugs a little, still jittery, well aware he's nowhere near as cool as he wants to be right now. "I mean it's, you know. If that's how you want it to be. It's — it's however you want it to be."

It's a little much, he knows it as soon as he says it, but Patrick doesn't laugh at him, doesn't kick him out, just smiles real soft, eyes crinkling at the corners again.

"Okay, Mitchell Marner," Patrick says. He's teasing, obviously, Mitch can see the way his lips turn up at the corners. But there's something about the way he says Mitch's name — so serious, like it's something important, like it's something worthy of being said. There's just enough space between them that it seems like it means something when he holds out a hand — like, holds out a hand for Mitch to take. For Mitch to touch. "Come here."

It’s not even the first time they've touched in the last, like, five minutes, but it feels like a lot when Mitch puts his hand in Patrick's, when Patrick's fingers close around his.

And then he's there again, in Patrick's space, right — right up against him. like, _right_ up against him. He's probably gaping like an idiot, can feel his jaw go loose at the hinge, but it doesn't seem to matter when Patrick puts his other hand (and god, his hands, his _hands_ ) on Mitch's jaw. Angles him down, just a little, more purposefully this time.

"Okay?" Patrick says. So quiet. Doesn't have to be loud, not when they're right up against each other like this, not when Mitch can taste his exhaled breaths.

"Okay," he says. He's never been more sure of anything in his life.


End file.
